


Good Kid, Bad Influence

by let2gotwoapplebee2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: College, M/M, Nerdiness, Post-Sburb, Roommates, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/let2gotwoapplebee2/pseuds/let2gotwoapplebee2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider has grown up to be the kind of boy John's Dad always warned him about, not to mention an awful roommate, but John can't help how handsome and funny and kind and COOL he is.</p><p>John fawns over Dave, but doesn't dare tell because he's a dork and cool kids don't go for dorks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which it is Established that Dave Strider is a Terrible Roommate

John Egbert is a Good Kid. He has a balanced diet, exercises regularly, goes to bed at a decent time and wakes up early, and buys all of the recommended textbooks for his classes.

Dave Strider is a Bad Influence. He has pierced ears and tattoos, sometimes drinks during the week, lacks a regular sleep schedule, and is pursuing a fine arts-related degree.

John’s Dad has had this discussion with him nearly every time John comes home without Dave. However, as they’ve moved through college, John has insisted on living with his childhood-best-friend-cum-fellow-world-saver despite his father’s warnings. However, it’s four in the morning and, as his favorite person in the world is in the room next to his, emulating breaking bones by throwing a head of lettuce at the ground repeatedly for a sound effects class, John’s father’s words echo in his head.

“John, I understand that he is quite charismatic and very dear to you, but that sort of person can be toxic. They lack boundaries and soon enough, it can wear down your standards as well. I just want you to be the best you can be. I’m proud of you, son.”

John grumbles and grabs his glasses from the nightstand. He hops from the bed, resolved to let Dave have a piece of his mind about this late night salad tossing.

Wait, no.

That was terrible.

Dammit.

He hitches his boxers higher on his hips and straightens them out before marching out his door. The carnage is worse than he expected. Shred of lettuce have made it all the way out to the hall outside Dave’s door. He hears another sickening crunch and his resolve strengthens.

“Dave,” he calls, sticking his head in the door. Dave’s head guiltily snaps toward him, half-decimated lettuce head held aloft for another strike. The diving crows inked low on Dave’s shoulder blades seem to be hiding their heads behind their wings in shame.

“’Sup?” the aspiring sound designer asks, as if there’s nothing odd about chucking veggies at the ground at four in the morning in nothing but pajama bottoms and shades. John crosses his arms and frowns, tapping his foot.

“David.”

“Johnid.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but four AM is largely regarded as sleep time. As in, normal people are asleep right now instead of crunching lettuce on their apartment floor. You’re keeping me awake and I have nine o’ clock lab.” Dave’s shoulders slump and the lettuce-holding hand falls to his side.

“Yeah, but normal people aren’t swag as hell. But if you need your beauty sleep, Eggy, I’ll let you to it. I prolly got some good samples at some point. So, night then.” John continues the stare at Dave that he hopes is pointed. “What?”

“You’re going to clean this up, right?” Dave blinks, dumbfounded. “Dave, I don’t want to walk through wilted lettuce in the morning and I don’t want our apartment to smell like rotting vegetation! Jegus, does that not strike you as a problem?” Dave frowns and his brows draw together.

“Okay, fuck, I’ll clean this shit up. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Seriously, who pissed in your Wheaties?”

“Shit, sorry… I’m just tired, man. Sweep this up, I guess? I’m gonna go to bed. Sorry.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry to keep you up. I’ll warn you next time I gotta do shit like this, so you can get earplugs or some shit.” John smiles at the compromise.

“Sounds good. Night, Dave!” Eheheh, he thinks. Night. Knight. He is so clever.

“Night John. And no, you aren’t clever.” John pouts, but retreats to his room otherwise satisfied.

He stretches out, content, once he’s back in bed, and takes off his glasses to lay them back in their place on the nightstand. One hand cushions his neck and the other lays across his stomach as he closes his eyes to drift to sleep. His tired mind drifts back to Dave with his lettuce held high and he chuckles. He wonders for a moment how he’d known that Dave had felt guilty or bewildered or anything at all. It sure as hell hadn’t been seeing it in his eyes and there hadn’t been any overt change in posture. There had been a tiny shift in his shoulders, a give in his knees.  
He smirks to think about Dave’s shoulders and those diving crows. They had been Dave’s first tattoo. He’d wanted to poke fun at the stupid diving sparrow tattoos everyone was getting and keep for himself a memorial of the hell they’d gone through. Every tattoo of his was a sort of memorial for their time in that damned game; the captchalogue code for the Royal Deringer was wound around his upper arm, his time gear behind his left ear, a purple crescent on his right calf, the number of times he died tallied over his right hip…

John swallows hard and remembers that it’s Bad News Bears to think about your roommate’s hips. Not that that’s ever stopped him before. He decides to take time, instead, to mull over for the millionth time the idea of getting the windy symbol tattooed on himself. If Dave could get something on his head without breaking a sweat, then maybe he could manage something like his shoulder. It would have to be somewhere where he could hide it from his Dad, but as often as they went swimming or on father-son bonding trips to the lake, anywhere that wasn’t under his swimsuit was ruled out. He ponders getting it on his hip or the outside of his thigh. He imagines showing it off to Dave and grinning at his stunned reaction. He’d be stunned that Good Boy Egbert had gotten a tattoo and, what’s more, was showing off the, admittedly pale, skin on his hip. He might reach out to gently touch it, the slightest part to his lips as he still can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Oh, now would you look at that? John frowns as he realizes he’s massaging the skin just inside his hip with a wayward thumb, which usually leads to something else being massaged. He sighs. One of these days, maybe he’ll stop fantasizing about Dave, or at least start having less mundane fantasies. He laughs to himself. Maybe Dave is having a bad influence on him. If only it were a bit more direct, he scoffs before wrapping a broad hand around himself and finishing what he started.


	2. In Which John is Really Just Ridiculously Excited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Pesterlog, some fiddling with imagery, and some sassy John. But not too sassy. But still a little sassy. And I don't feel like figuring out how do colors for chatlogs, so use your imagination. Now you know how Dogtier Jade feels. For shame, demanding colors when not everyone can appreciate them.

John Egbert sucks in a deep breath to ward off the nervousness, but winces in pain at the unexpected strain it puts on his ribs. He whips out his phone over what’s left of his sub and chips and opens Pesterchum.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 17:47--

EB: hey dave, are you home?  
EB: because i really want to show you something  
EB: and that’s hard to do if you’re not there!  
TG: omw home bro  
TG: whats up  
EB: it’s a surprise!  
TG: i swear to gog if this is payback for the lettuce i will end you  
TG: and at the funeral no one will cry  
TG: theyll be standing around like yeah that guy deserved it  
TG: seriously it was just lettuce theyll say  
TG: and dadbert will be weeping into your grave like  
TG: why did my poor son have to die over a vegetable  
TG: and hell turn to me and be like your grave shall be the next dug  
EB: dave  
EB: dave shut up  
EB: that is not even anything like what is going to happen  
EB: i’m not even home to set a prank up  
EB: just chill! it’s awesome, i swear  
TG: fine  
TG: just know what awaits those who try to take vengeance on a strider over produce  
EB: haha, sure dave  
EB: i’m shaking in unbridled fear here  
EB: but seriously, get home soon. i’m really excited about this!

\--ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 18:09--

John grins. He wouldn’t use the word glowing, personally, but he probably wouldn’t deny it if someone else did. He bunches up the empty chip bag, shoves the remainder of the sub in his mouth, and slings his bag over his shoulder. Scooping all of his trash in one go, he makes a victorious dunk of it before rushing outside to hop on his bike and speed home.

He stands up from the seat as he pedals wildly, the world a happy blur as it whooshes past him. There’s a sting in his lungs from the late fall air and a happy burn in his calves. From knee to ankle, there’s a sort of freeze-burn as cold wind whips his bare, blood-filled legs. As he coasts recklessly down a hill, a strap from his bag whips him just over the newly tender spot on his ribs and okay, ow that fucking hurt, but it doesn’t even matter. Nothing can crack his smile, as he brakes lightly down the steep hill his shared apartment sits on.

He swerves daringly into the drive, hopping off his still moving bike and running it to the bike rack under the building’s awning. He haphazardly slaps the lock on before forgoing the building’s elevator, opting to dash up the six floors of stairs instead. He bounds up them, taking no fewer than two at a time. A laugh tears itself out of his burning lungs as he throws himself at the door, digging through his pockets for his key. He bursts through the door, kicking his shoes off and slinging his bag after them.

“Luuucy, I’m hooome!” he calls.

“Dude. I’m right the fuck here,” Dave grunts from the couch.

“Oh! Eheheh. So you are. So, how was your day?” he pants, ironically breathless.

“Fine, so what the hell has your Egbert panties hiked up so high you’re flying up the stairs?”

“Oh, you know,” John teases, “just a thing.”

“Joohn,” Dave warns.

“Well, I’m just not sure if you really wanna see it,” he snickers, loving to get any sort of rise out of Dave.

“Egbert, I’m missing studio time for this. Fucking WHAT is it?”

“Oh, well if you wanna see it THAT bad…” John snickers.

Carefully and tauntingly, he tugs at the right side of his shirt hem.

“Really, John? You called me home to give me my nightly strip tease earl-fuck, what happened?”

Dave gawks at the bandage over John’s ribs and John all but doubles over in laughter, chest swelling with pride at the unexpected filling of his Prankster’s Gambit. Slowly, he peels the gauze patch off, peeking under it to check that it’s okay to be paraded underneath. Once it’s off, he flips to show his bare side to his roommate.

“Ta-dah!” he shouts.

Dave’s mouth falls open slightly and he slides his shades down his nose to look with bare eyes at the raw Egbertflesh.

The raw, inked Egbertflesh.

He brushes the skin below the new pigment, still red from the medical tape, with a ginger hand. Above his fingertips is a sky blue, lineless symbol of Breath, raised and a bit angry against the rest of John’s skin.

“Huh,” he breathes.

John chews his lip viciously. The tender touch tickles, but he doesn’t dare dance away from it.

“So, do you like it?” he hazards. He holds his breath. Do or die. He prays desperately for the approval of the Cool Kid.

“John, it’s awesome. Really gorgeous.”

Did. Did Dave just.

“Did you just say gorgeous?”

“Yeah, man. It’s gorgeous. It’s the symbol for Breath sitting outside your lungs. And it doesn’t have any shitty line art to it, it’s just pure blue. It looks like the same color as your veins. This is fucking perfect. John, good pick, man. I just. Wow.”

When John dares to look down at the end of Dave’s gushing, he sees his roommate’s face closer to his skin than he had been expecting. His shades are off and he’s apparently closely admiring the artisanship or some shit. Then, he feels it. Dave lets out a sigh and it ghosts over the thin skin on John’s ribs. A shudder crashes up his spine from base to tip and more color attacks his face than he’s really comfortable with.

“Oh hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to tickle,” John is sure he’s imagining it, but something sounds huskier in Dave’s voice and he really doesn’t sound too sorry.

“I-it’s cool.” Did he stutter just now? Really? Perfect. “I, uh, gotta go wash it off now. It hurt enough getting it. Don’t want the little bastard to get infected, too.”

“You know how to wash it?”

“Well, I guess. I mean, I-“

“So no. I’ll help you out. You got any ointment?”

“Well, I didn’t really-“

“Great. Smart. So, I’ll go grab what I’ve got. You go get some nice warm water running. Meet you in the bathroom.”

Dave shuffles off to his room, leaving John with some uncomfortable realizations. Absently shucking his shirt onto the couch, he shuffles to the bathroom and wonders how this happened, with Dave insisting to wash him and ointmentize him. He finds himself drawing warm water from the bathroom sink before he’s realized he even made it to the bathroom at all. He plops down heavily onto the lid of the toilet and waits.

A moment later, a still-shadeless Dave joins him, antibiotic ointment in one hand and a fragrance-free soap in the other. He works a lather up on the soap under the warm water and John marvels at how the cords of muscle wrench around in his forearms. He glances up to the bit of collarbone exposed by the hoodie Dave’s hacked at extensively with scissors and dimly notes that there isn’t a shirt under it. There’s a space between where the hoodie ends and his sweatpants begin and, poking out from it, John can see part of Dave’s death count. He feels a pang when he realizes he can’t see all of the tallies and there’s still too many that he can see.

“Wellp, we’re doing this,” Dave announces.

“We’re making this happen?” John chuckles the response.

He beams up at Dave, who wields his wet and soapy sponge with reverence, and his heart pounds and sings at whatever it is he’s just gotten himself into.

“Arm up, bud. Need room to work the magic.”

Oh yes.

This can only end well.

Nothing bad can possibly come of this.


	3. In Which John Learns Proper Tattoo Aftercare from Dave, Who is Still a Bad Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was fun. More tattoo research. But seriously, this one was really fun. Fight me.  
> EDIT: Thanks to aa for helping me weed out some false info!

John raises his arms over his head, letting his forearms cross and rest atop his still wind-messy hair. He suddenly feels unreasonably self-conscious about his armpit hair, though he can’t quite fathom why. Dave sets the warm, soapy sponge down a moment to roll up the sleeves of the baggy, butchered hoodie. He kneels next to John, sponge in hand once more, and makes a tender first swipe at the skin. John feels something melt in him at the soft, warm contact. Seeing his ward relax, Dave begins to clean the angry skin in earnest. John feels as though he’s pinned his tailbone to the toilet lid to keep from shuddering at the sweet gentleness of it.

He glances at Dave’s bare face, frustrated to find it just as unreadable without the shades as with. He seems to be focused intently, and raises what John can only assume to be a bracing hand to set it on John’s abdomen, fingers splayed across his front while the thumb hooks around his side. Just like with the rest of Dave, there’s a rich warmth coming from that hand. The muscles in John’s chest and spine tighten, while those closer to the hand relax and melt to it. A nagging voice jeers at John, saying he’d better enjoy this because this is the most contact he’ll ever get from Dave.

John gets a glance at the sponge and his stomach turns when he sees traces of blood soaked into it. Yes, he knew that was part of the deal, but he still finds himself a mite sensitive to the sight of his own blood and believes himself to be perfectly justified, thank you very much. His gut tenses and Dave must feel it because he looks up to John’s face. His mouth is all but a straight line, though John sees the slight frown behind it. His eyebrows verge on neutral, but John can see how they knit ever so slightly. His eyes are passive and calm, but the concern in them shines bright to John and only John.

“Hey, you alright? Anything stinging?”

“I- B-buh… No. It’s fine, I just… The, uh, blood… And stuff. Saw it. Yeah.”

Dave’s dark brows tug the barest margin closer together and the hand on his stomach gives him a gentle pap.

“Hey, I’ll wash the sponge. No biggie. Shoulda done it earlier.” He rises to his feet and wrings the sponge, running it back through the deliciously warm water and lathering it again with the gentle soap. The thought flashes through John’s mind that, damn, this is awfully intimate. He flushes and grins, mind eagerly flooding with fantasies.

A shirtless Dave looms over him and John traces his tongue from a chiseled, tattooed hip, up cinnamon dusted abs, past the slim sculpted chest, up a gracefully craning neck to nibble at pale-peach skin around an ebony stud. Also, because it is his fantasy, John makes a mental note that his mouth wouldn’t be dry at all and he’d be sexy and with a conveniently paced and unending supply of saliva with which to trail. He blinks himself back into reality and remembers how bad he is at fantasizing on the fly.

The real Dave has swiveled to resume his gentle ministrations, though John was pretty sure he was, in fact, clean a while ago. No complaints, though. The collar to his faded red hoodie is chopped and seared into a more open, square shape. With the sleeves pushed up unevenly, one side threatens the edge of his shoulder that it’s going to jump and John gawks and the gingery clusters scattered around him, wreathing his shoulders. Lean muscle strains around his shoulders and his collarbone demands John’s attention, sharp and delicate. A dry tongue darts over John’s lips and he suddenly remembers that breathing never stopped being a thing that he should do.

“Hey, you okay?” he hears from below his armpit. John blinks and gives himself a bit of a shake, to realize that Dave is actually talking again and, what’s more, is patting his side dry. Hum, when did that happen?

“Heh, yeah. I’m just, uh, just kinda spacey. You know. And stuff.” Oh, cool John. So cool. And stuff? Really? Dave laughs at his side, reaching for the antibiotic cream.

“Yeah. And stuff. I gotcha.” He shifts his sleeves back up and John notices he’s sort of kneading the ointment tube.

“Hey, uh… Whatcha doin there, Dave? Did the diaper rash cream badmouth your mom?”

“John, don’t talk about mothers. You know I’m sensitive about not having one. You of all people should understand.” John finds himself impressed that Dave’s deadpan is just as effective without the glasses. His red, spider-webbed eyes went just as glassy as the tinted lenses. “I’m trying to get this shit less hope-fuckingly cold. You’ll thank me,” he adds as he squeezes some of the cream into his palm. He sets the tube back up on the sink and, with his now free fingers, smoothes it thinly over the new tattoo.

John feels his heart decide to pick up the pace as Dave’s fingers slide, tender and warm, over his ticklish ribs. The touch is soft enough not to hurt, though insistent enough to keep him from squirming. He swallows hard as the thought _‘Dave is good with his hands’_ echoes around his head. He continues massaging the, admittedly tense, muscle around the tattoo and John has to screw his eyes shut tight to not see the look on Dave’s face that his over-smitten brain decided to label as tender. He can feel his skin flush and fuck oh fuck dammit.

“Hey, Eggs, should I lay off? This looks like it could get real awkward real fast.”

John’s eyes snap open, his face burning.

Boner.

“I, uh, yeah, that… Gosh, this is awkward. I’ll just go punch my dick in the face now. Sorry it decided to play gay chicken. You are the winner, though. It is you! Eheheh. Uhm, no homo though. I’ll just… go die now.”

John has leapt to his feet and is stumbling quickly out of the bathroom. His life is over. Everything is horrible. He begs his dick, how could you do this to me? He’d thought they were friends, pals. Pals don’t do that to each other.

“Hey, it’s chill. Warm, shirtless massage from the Strider. Boners happen. Hey, you’re gonna wanna keep putting this shit on until scabs stop being a thing that happens. When you see scabs, no picking. It’ll fuck your pretty new ink up. If that ointment irritates you, find something else that’s an antibiotic deal. It goes on three or four times a day for two weeks. Got it?”

John blinks numbly. Texas drawl. He can still see Dave’s hips. Oh wait, he’s saying important shit.

“Y-yeah. Got it. I-“

“And leave your shirt off for a bit. It’ll let the cream dry and you’re less likely to piss your skin off.”

John wonders absently if Dave had to clip his hair aside when he got the gear tattoo before remembering that that was when he went through the phase where he tried to emulate Tavros’ Mohawk, which had ended more as a shaggy fauxhawk sex god fiasco. He shudders to remember it.

“Heh, are you sure you don’t have any ulterior motives for telling me to leave my shirt off, Dave?” Haha! Back on top!

Dave tucks his hands in his hoodie pocket and takes a few long-legged strides forward. John gulps at how quickly the distance between them is erased.

“You tell me, Baron von Boner,” he purrs as a smirk threatens his poker face.

A squeak twists itself from John’s throat as he’s nearly pinned to the wall. His face is again flushed and he sees only one option.

Abscond.

One of these days, he’d win at these stupid games of gay chicken Dave keeps challenging him to.


	4. A Short Interlude, In Which There Is a Change in Narration, Though Only Briefly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short intermission.

Your name is Dave Strider and you might as well be beating your dick against a wall.

You would be making just as much progress toward getting your roommate, John Egbert, to drop the no homo act and, at this point, it might be easier on your poor, abused spam porpoise.


	5. In Which John Spends Some Time in His Thinking Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This took longer to crank out than usual because I got into an argument with Dave about how his day went. -sigh-

It’s eleven o’ clock at night and John Egbert is perched on the terraced roof of his apartment building. The city lights blot out the stars and there’s not much up there to block the wind. When he’d first moved in in May, one of the first things he’d done was buy some soft blue Christmas lights and wind and loop them around haphazardly. It’s like having his own world again. It’s his thinking place and it hasn’t failed him yet.

It’s been three and a half or four days, depending on how liberal one is with their chronology rounding, since John received his hands-on tutorial for tattoo aftercare. He can still feel the hand on his stomach, the smooth massaging at his side. The worried look on Dave’s bare face whenever he’d flinch or lose himself inside his own head ghosts through his dreams. He can feel Dave’s breath on his face or over his new mark.   
He’s not sure why he still spouts his “no homo” bullshit around Dave anymore. Even if he legitimately intends no subtext, Dave would know. He supposes he’s just scared of what happens when all parties involved are aware that one gawks after the other. Typical, the spastic dork drooling nervously after the unattainable, gorgeous cool guy. He makes a disgusted noise in his throat. He likes himself. He’s pretty sure his list of problems he has with himself is shorter than those of his peers. He just longs for Dave’s… calm. He’s jealous of Dave’s ability to sit back and allow. He craves to be able to own a moment by being the least nervous. He itches to be chill.

He takes a deep breath of cold night air. It’s not quite winter yet, but fall’s over and done. Dave sits around the apartment, piled in scarves and nearly always wearing a hat. John wishes he would make an effort to adjust to the cooler temperatures, but it’s so hard to push when all he can see of Dave’s face is a freckled, beaked nose peeking over a massive, lush scarf.

The particularly embarrassing part had been when Dave had started bundling up once the temperature ducked below 60. If it were closer to 51, or the 40s, John would be a bit more understanding, but at 59 degrees, his roommate metamorphoses into Nanook of the North. The air doesn’t even have bite to it, yet. He can still wear shorts if the sun is out!

He shakes his head to no one in particular, comforting himself with the fact that Dave looks gorgeous in winter hats. John’s been making a point of snapping Dave up some slouching beanies and trapper hats just to see the way his hair sweeps his cheeks from the sides and his bangs splay over his glasses.

An airplane passes overhead, ruining John’s Land of Shade for a moment. He takes the intrusion to sit up and dust the rocks, dirt, and whatever else was on the roof off his bare back. He sweeps the area he’d been laying on with his hand before laying back down under the black blanket of sky.

The door behind him creaks open, weather having abused it out of silence years ago. John wiggles and stretches, pillowing his hands under his head. He doesn’t look over. He doesn’t need to. He know who it is. It’s the only asshole who invades his thinking spot. John permits himself a loud sigh, before acknowledging the Eskimo behind him with an articulate, “Fmm?”

Dave shuffles to stand next to him and all John can see of him is motorcycle boots in his periphery. He smells strongly of expensive coffee and John feels hurt that he went to the shop across the street without telling him.

“Am I interrupting something?” Dave drawls. His tone sounds like it ought to cut, but John doesn’t miss the curiosity in it.

“Thinking. Why’d you go to Tree without me?”

“Didn’t go to Tree. Didn’t invite you ‘cause I didn’t think you were feelin’ up for a date. Had to find a substitute.”

“You… It was a date?”

“Yeh,” Dave shrugs, noncommittally.

“How do you even? Sorry, I forget that you’re swimming in bitches sometimes. What was her name?”

“Adrian.”

“That’s a pretty name. Not too common for girls these days.”

“Right you are. Especially, since I’m talking about the guy from our Drawing class.”

John furrows his brows. Adrian from Drawing. It was the only class he and Dave shared. Neither of them needed it and they’d taken it just to have some class together. Adrian, Adrian. Tan, slim, black hair. Greek. Short, sometimes sings while working, lovely voice. Went to an open mic night with Dave. Last name Karathanasis. Friends on Facebook with Dave, but not John. Has a tumblr full of his shitty photography, over which he slaps faux-inspiring phrases. Gorgeous hair, has some gaudy chestpiece in Greek. Wears too many v-necks. John frowns.

“That guy? That asshole? Was this some kind of irony date?”

Dave laughs and sits beside John without pulling his hands from his pea coat pockets.

“Well, I… No?”

John feels like Dave’s stomped on his chest with one of those boots.

“And that ‘no’ was a question, why?”

“Because… well, he asked me out and- come on, he’s hot and he likes art- don’t roll yer fucking eyes, Egbert.”

John ceased, but he kept the scowl.

“And it wasn’t ironic because, get this, this guy thinks I make all those shitty graphics for real. Like, he thinks I have passion for that shit. Fuck, man, it was a mess. He was all kinds of thinkin I was a completely different person. He sang fuckin Dashboard Confessional at me, John. It was a fuckin nightmare.”

John finally looks up at him to see he’s unwound his scarf in all his beflusterment. His knees are pitched and his shoulders hiked up. His stomach is tucked in and contracted so he can stay upright. He looks… uncomfortable.

“So, it went bad, then?”

“Aww, Christ, it was awful! And he asked if I wanted to go back to his dorm and I was just like ‘Fucknard, were you on the same date as me? We only talked about your shitty blog and your shitty music and the fact that the Greek language is really interesting!’ Okay, that last part was cool, but still. I was shootin my least interested vibes at this fuckwit and he’s still playin at some grabass when we walk out!”

John stills as Dave rants for the first time in months. He smiled a bit to himself as Dave just utterly lost it over this moron. Sometime that he hadn’t noticed, his chest had uncrushed itself and he was glad for it. He reaches a hand out from behind his head and sets it low on Dave’s back. He feels Dave relax into it and he may be imagining it, but the gesture feels grateful. He rubs his thumb in a firm arc before gently lifting a question.

“So how’d it end? What’d you tell him?”

“He went in for a kiss and I slugged him in the fuckin jaw. Told ‘im it’d be a good idea to just skip Drawing on Tuesday, since I was over ‘is greasy ass.”

John chuckles and snorts into his fist.

“Attaboy.”

“Seriously? I punch a fucker in the jaw and you say ‘attaboy’ like I’m some 1920s kid and you’re my proud papa, like ‘my boy just won his first fight. He’ll sure have his pick of some swell ladies. Look at that gumption!’ Are you even real, Egbert?”

“I’ve been known to get pretty existy, yeah. And I’m not sure how a 1920s dad would feel about his son punching out his not hetero date.”

“Maybe you’re an open minded 1920s proud papa. Maybe it’s like your dad, where all I have to do is not piss myself in public to earn your pride.”

“Hey, shut up!” John flushes, partly because he’s not sure how exaggerated that statement is. “But seriously, I don’t think a father in the 20s would want his son punching his date.”

Dave barks a laugh to the sky. “Man, John, you got this date etiquette thing down. I should’ve come to you for advice years ago.”

“I’m not trying to say what you should have done! I mean, he deserved it, I bet, but I’m just thinking, hypothetically, from the point of view of our 1920s father-in-question. That’s all.”

Dave snorts and cards a hand through John’s hair. He leaves it there and thinks for a beat before resuming his ongoing quest to make Egbert’s life as awkward as possible.

“So, Mister Perfect-1920s-Bachelor, I’m sure you’ve got your pick of the swell ladies, too. Why don’t I ever see THEM around our lovely shit hole of an apartment?”

John’s heart jumps to his throat, which he assumes is just an attempt to get closer to Dave, the traitorous little bastard. He coughs his throat clear again and sits up, losing the hand in his hair. He dusts his back off again, doing his best to hide his shaking hands.

“Well,” he hazards, brushing whatever particulates off his ass, deciding to take the plunge, “Maybe swell _ladies_ aren’t what set my gentleman’s heart aflutter.” He walks back into the roof’s door, praying for all he’s worth that he seemed casual. As he shuts the door behind him, he doesn’t turn his head to peek at the carnage he must’ve wrought, blowing Dave’s mind.

Because cool guys don’t look at explosions.


	6. In Which John Takes a Less-Than-Refreshing Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops, this starts off pretty damned explicit. Skip ahead if you're not okay with Egsturbation.Things I had fun with this chapter: deciding what name Dave has in John's phone, making up the name of a delightfully awful Chinese buffet, all of it.

_John splays his palms out on either side of Dave’s calves. The blonde is absorbed in something on his laptop and John decides he wants attention. He bends down and, with a tentative tongue, traces the crescent on Dave’s calf. A shudder runs up his back and John grins, encouraged. He plants kisses and gentle sucks all over and around the purple moon. There’s a frustrated grunt higher up on the bed and John’s all giggles. Dave flips himself over and snags viciously at the Heir’s arm, dragging him up the bed. Lips are mashed together and tongues tangle. A broad freckled hand grabs through John’s hair, while its match slinks below his waistband and wraps firmly around what it finds there. John gasps against the full lips as Dave’s hand pumps furiously at his dick._

John slaps his hand against the shower wall, panting. His mouth hangs open, tongue gently rolled in anticipation of an intrusion that isn’t coming. He gasps as he works his hand around his shaft. His thumb massages the ridge where his head begins and a half-grunt squeals out of his throat. The scalding water beats at his back, blankets his neck, floods his hair. Streams trace his jawline and wet his lips, while another runs down his nose and others still flow around his cheekbones. He grips firmly at his base, before pumping furiously. Hot tension bundles too quickly and he gasps as unsatisfying release hits him. He leans his forehead against the wall, still panting, shaking slightly. He continues to let the water assault him as he gets a grip on his breathing.

The rest of his shower is a haze. He stumbles out onto the bathmat, groping blindly for his towel. He sighs as he mops at his face. Ever since he decided to grow a pair and hint to Dave that he might just appreciate the cock, it’s been a constant struggle of chicanery and flirtation and bullshit. He plops down on the toilet seat and flips his head over to scrub his hair dry before snagging his glasses from the sink to pop them on. Confident that he won’t leave a drippy trail back to his room, John wraps the towel around his waist and pokes his head out the door.

“Hey.”

John jumps, flails, smacks his head on the door, and lands in a heap on the ground. Dave stands over him, smirking like the smug asshole he is. A flush splashes John’s cheeks. It might make him want to punch the smirk off the other boy’s face, but smug was undeniably a good look for Strider. John is dizzy and he can’t tell if it’s brain damage or that he’s too naked too close to Dave. He’s just considering the possibility that he may have pre-existing brain damage to have even told Dave he might be into guys when he realizes the blonde is bent over him, offering a hand to help him up. He grips at his towel and latches onto the arm, stumbling to his feet.

“I’m just gonna go die in a hole now,” he mumbles as he pushes past the Cool Kid. He slams his door behind him and flops miserably onto the bed. His head begins to throb and he can’t be bothered to get up and get any painkillers. His phone vibrates at his nightstand and he guiltily jumps to snatch it. It’s a text from Dave and more nerdy shame eats at his stomach as he fumbles to open the message faster than the phone can necessarily process.

\--Text from DAVE COOLKID :D at 18:12--  
wanna get dinner at star king panda wok? kinda need to talk. lease bullshit and stuff.

\--Outgoing Message at 18:13--  
sure! how about we head out at 6:45? oh god, i haven’t had star king panda wok in months!

\--Text from DAVE COOLKID :D at 18:17--  
actually i have to snag something from the store real quick before we get there. meet there at 7?

\--Outgoing Message at 18:18--  
kay, that works for me!

John sighs and stretches. Dinner at a restaurant with Dave. He beats himself up over the grin and giggle he lets out at the notion. Suddenly, panic grips at his chest. What in the name of Sweet Merciful Troll Jegus is he going to wear?


	7. A Slightly Longer, Though Still Short Interlude, In Which There Is a Change in Narration Again, Though Only Briefly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second intermission.

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re kind of freaking out a little.

No big deal, but you’ve just bought a bouquet of flowers, but have decided that that was the worst possible idea. There’s also an engraved pocketwatch in your hand that you rescued from a thrift store and sent to a way-too-expensive clock shop. It was a terrible idea too.

You look up and see some black-haired doof careening into the Star King Panda Wok parking lot on his bicycle and, in a moment of blind panic, you shove the flowers into the trash can next to you. You stuff the overly sentimentally engraved watch into your back pocket and thump against the nearest pillar in the best approximation of cool you can muster. The Doof is fooled. You are mentally punching yourself for such a monumental puss-out.


	8. In Which John and Dave Eat at Star King Panda Wok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we meet my favorite character I've never named. Also, I'm just going to let everyone know that John and Dave aren't kidding, this restaurant's name is Star King Panda Wok and I'm absurdly proud of its name.

John skids to a halt in front of the Star King Panda Wok, grinning at his roommate. He practically throws his bike into the rack nearby, before rounding on the Cool Kid, still leaning against a pillar.

“Shall we, David?” he asks, gesturing with a bow towards the door.

“Oh, let’s shall, Johnid.”

John laughs and stops to roll the legs of his jeans back down. The habit had saved him many a pair of pants, at the expense of often walking into buildings with accidental man-capris. Dave sighs and slouches through the seconds John spends doubled over, before the two walk in together.

The hostess greets John with open arms, squeezing him until he hears something crack. She’s a short, portly woman with a sing-song voice, who shouts to them in broken English about how she’s missed them and they need to come more often and that they are too skinny and that the Mongolian beef is really good tonight. She scurries them to a booth in the back, tucked away from the bulk of the restaurant’s noise. She gives Dave a loving pap on the head and dodges away, calling that she’ll have their drinks for them before they get back from the buffet.

John is all smiles. The hostess reminds him of home and family and he does an admirable job of suppressing his giggles at the butchered English she flings at him, rapid-fire. He practically skips through the buffet, grinning and helping himself to entirely too generous portions of anything that doesn’t explicitly have peanuts in it. When he sidles back into the booth, he chuckles to find a generic white soda in front of his seat and what he can only assume is cherry cola in front of Dave’s. When Dave returns, John gawps at the orgiastic conglomerate that is his plate. Everything from squid to mini corndogs is piled high on a bed of fried rice. He looks down to his own, tidy piles. Even if some things overlap, they aren’t the mind-bending smorgasbord of Dave’s meal.

When Dave sits, he seems to struggle to settle comfortably, leaning this way and that. He reaches into the seat and John sees his arm jostle around at pants level while the barest flush tints the skin under his freckles. He can’t contain his sniggers and finds himself laughing openly before Dave’s returned his hand to his fork.

“Can I help you?”

“Dave, did you seriously just fish out a wedgie there? I mean, for real? I thought you had more class than that!” Dave grimaces and stabs at some fried crabmeat.

“Didn’t pick a fuckin wedgie. Stuck my wallet in the wrong pocket.”

“Oh, sure. Okay Dave. Whatever you say. Those wallets sure are troublesome!”

“Right, fuck you. So, living next year…”

“Yeah?”

“Our lease is running out in like May. Are we staying put, going home over the summer, finding a new shit hole, splitting up, what are we doing?”

John nearly drops his fork. Not living with Dave. That had never even occurred to him as an option. He blinks numbly, not sure where to start. Does Dave want to split up? Is he too obnoxious? Does he want to live with another sound design major to work on projects better so their hours don’t clash? Is there someone else he’d rather live with?

“Earth to Egbert. Hey. You alright?”

“I- yeah- uh… Do you want to live with someone else next year? Like, do you have someone lined up or something or am I-“

“Woah, we’re stopping that train right there.” John nearly gasps for the air he hadn’t realized he was running out of. “I’m a fucking awful roommate. I know that. I just want you to know that I won’t die if you say you want to live with someone next year who doesn’t throw lettuce around at odd hours.” He throws a sheepish smirk at John before flagging down the hostess. He asks for Tsingtao, which John vaguely recalls is some kind of Chinese beer. She nods, grinning, and scurries off. She’s back in what feels like seconds with two bottles. Dave chuckles and tosses a Mandarin phrase to her that John presumes must be quite charming, since she’s giggling and blushing and flapping her hand at him before she dashes off again.

“So, do you still want to live with me next year?”

“Honestly, very yes. You’re my favorite person and probably the only person who could ever handle living with me, beyond Bro, who’s even more insufferable.”

“Right. Cool. Well, I, uh… I was planning on staying over the summer and taking classes.” Dave nods knowledgably and leans back, cracking open Tsingtao #1. He mulls something over silently through the first few frosty gulps before settling the bottle back on the table and stuffing a forkful of whatever the hell in his mouth.

“I was gonna have to do that too. Looking at picking up a double major with Acoustical Physics. Pretty easy to tack on, but a summer or two wouldn’t hurt.”

“So, roommates through next year?”

“At least.”

“Rad. But, uh… can I make a request?”

“Sure?”

“I know this is gonna be a pain in the ass, but can we find a less shitty apartment? I don’t like that we have to boil our drinking water whenever the seasons change, among other numerous shitty things about that place.”

“Y-yeah, that… That sounds pretty excellent.” Dave takes a deep swig from his beer, slamming it down this time with a satisfied, “Ahh…”

“Eheheh, cool. Hey, can I try a piece of fried squid? I’m kinda curious about it over here…”

Without a word, the Cool Kid spears an unsuspecting battered tentacle with his fork and holds it at John’s lips. John moves his hand to take the fork, but Dave’s arm doesn’t budge. He sighs and bites it from the utensil in question, closing his lips on the far side of it to insure against any Terminal Consumption Failures. He hears a “Hm,” from the blonde across the table, but pays it no mind as he chews thoughtfully. The texture is a bit rubbery, with some crunch from the breading. It’s a sweet taste, overall and mostly pleasant until he hears

“So, how do you like Squidward?”

John pales and spits into his napkin, nearly retching. Dave cracks up and swigs from his bottle again. And just like that, there’s a mutual relaxation between them; a dissolution of the tension neither had noticed until it was gone. John kicks Dave under the table and nibbles, satisfied, at his lo mein.


	9. In Which John and Dave Leave Star King Panda Wok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I hammered out a lot of this super fast. Lots of fun with imagery this go around. Enjoy.

John is giggling endlessly as they exit the restaurant.

“That was seriously cruel, Dave! I didn’t call your sushi Nemo or whatever!” He hops to the bike rack, absorbed entirely in the lock for a fraction of a moment before he hears a worried voice over his shoulder.

“H-hey, John, wait-“

He darts his head around, brows knit in concern. Is Dave okay? What did he do? Does he need to walk home with someone? It is kind of dark. He’ll just walk his bike and make sure Dave gets home alright. He did wind up having three beers. How much of an effect did that usually have on him?

“I, uh. There’s this thing, and…”

“Dave, what? You’re being weird.”

Dave’s dodging eye contact like it’s a flurry of punches as he shuffles a slim margin closer to John.

“I… No, this is dumb. Forget it. This only sounded like a good idea for a second because I’m buzzed. Seriously. Pretend I said nothing.”

“Uhm, no. You’re acting too not cool for me to not worry about this.” John rises to his feet, face still full of worry. “What the hell is wrong, Dave?”

A hand flashes from Dave’s side and latches around Egbert’s wrist, tugging him closer while the other hand fishes in his pocket. John can’t help the shiver at how close the action mirrored his earlier imagined scenario. He feels warm metal pressed into his palm. Dave still refuses to meet his eyes. The grip on his wrist is a bit too tight and he feels frozen to the sidewalk. The night air sieves through his thin jacket and he shivers again. The net of cold wraps around him and he stares dumbly at Dave’s forehead. Something just broke and he has no idea what it is, but he gets the feeling it’s tied to whatever warm metal thing is in his hand. He feels a chain wound lightly around his thumb and some dim part of his brain shouts from far away that Dave’s doing that and he’s doing it to fidget.

When John finally manages to move his neck, he peers down to see an antique brass pocket watch in his palm, with the chain dangling around his thumb. Dave lets go of John’s wrist like it burns and takes a quick step back.

“I’ll meet you back home. Or something. Think I might just… I dunno. Sleep. Or something. Bye.” And he’s disappeared.

John blinks against the now burning cold before looking back at the curiously beautiful watch. The brass shines like it’s been polished recently, but there’s something in the craftsmanship that trumpets the construction of a bygone era. The chain is long, but thick and sturdy. Some of the links look like they’ve been ground down a bit and refinished to combat their rusting. The front casing of it is ringed with etchings in Latin around a delicate web of arcs and lines. He turns it over to see the back, mouth agape at its bright smoothness. He turns it back and presses cautiously at the release on the top, not sure how much pressure it needs. It responds to a surprisingly firm touch and springs open, baring a mostly transparent face. There are Roman numerals around the outer edge, while the face’s center is glass, showing the delicate and intricate cogs under the spidery slender arms. The casing’s inside is etched, he realizes, and his heart nearly stops when he realizes what he’s seeing.

In the center is the unfilled shape of the Breath symbol. Around it, a message is written in a careful and delicate hand. _“For John, to have Time even if I’m not near.”_ He reads it again and again. The etching is new, any idiot could tell that. He gnaws at his lip as he realizes that Dave must have gotten this refurbished. Not cheap. This was a decidedly premeditated gift. He rereads every word, drinking in what meaning he can glean. He’s giving John Time, a piece of himself, his signature, for if he’s ever gone.

If. “If.” Not even “when.” It’s a startlingly intimate statement and it dawns on John just why he might have hesitated to give it. Actually, a lot of things dawn on John. He clips the chain to his belt loop and cautiously tucks the precious gift into his pocket before rolling his jeans up to his knees and hopping onto his bike. He has to get home. He suddenly has a shit ton of things he needs to talk to Dave about and approximately none of it can wait a second longer. It’s been waiting long enough, anyway.


	10. In Which John Gets the Fuck Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, John relives a scene from my life.  
> Also, thank you so much to anyone who comments ever! Hearing from you guys, whether it's praise or criticism, makes my whole world like a million times better! Also, I love all of you. Yes, even you. Reading right now. Especially you.

More than his fair share of honking trails John as he pedals home. He can’t let Dave beat him there. He can’t let Dave sit in the apartment alone and drink and think for single fucking second that he isn’t completely head over heels for the ridiculous Cool Kid, who’s just a big sentimental dork. The nigh-freezing wind whips at every inch of bare skin. His calves sting wickedly, his fingers and face are rapidly numbing. The cruel air pushes tears out of his eyes that he tried to blink into submission. The apartment complex pulls into view along the steep hill and John lifts his hips, tilting himself forward to beg for a bit of extra speed.

He can only barely make out the red, black, and pale shape of Dave shuffling under the building’s awning. His raw, cramping hands uncurl to reach around the brakes as he stands himself up a few inches further still on the pedals. His aching red knuckles try to squeeze the levers inward, but something catches the wrong way and John’s world exists in slow motion. He’s pulled the handlebars a bit too hard with hands that don’t have enough feeling. The front brake triggered first down the steep-ass hill and now the rear wheel is lifting. His stomach seems to rise into his chest and, for a moment, he feels beautifully weightless. He wants to turn to see Dave again, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes off the ground. As he feels himself fully raised from the bike in his strange, slow motion waking-dream, he decides the handlebars are a lost cause and shoves a hand into his pocket to protect the present from his Knight.

The concrete sidewalk is not what John would call merciful. He makes contact with it somewhere around his shoulder blades, thanks to some innovative ducking techniques. His shirt and something on his pants snag and hike. A hot burn runs down his back, calves, and forearms. His bike skids a bit further down the hill and, once it comes to rest, John hears tennis shoes slapping against the pavement, coming toward him.

“Holy fucking fuck John what the hell just happened your bike is oh my fuck are you okay shit that’s blood is anything broken do you know can you wiggle some shit fuck I think your bike’s pretty wrecked can you sit up should you sit up do you want me to carry you in should I call an ambulance are you okay shit John are you okay?”

John blinks hard and squints, but the figure above him refuses to get any clearer. A shaky, cold, scraped-to-fuck palm to his face tells him his glasses are gone. He pieces the world back together once it stops spinning. He’s on his back on the ground. Dave is over him, babbling and upset. He’s cold as fuck. One hand is still in his pocket. The more information he makes sense of, the more the pain creeps in until it escapes in a

“Shit ow fffffffFUCK!” Air whooshes out of Dave and he feels the last of the warm rush on his nearly numb nose.

“Do you think you’re okay to get picked up? Do you think anything’s broken?” Dave pauses and John can see the blur over him tilt. It’s closer than he thought it would be. Dave must’ve knelt at some point. “Why is your hand in your pocket, numbnuts?”

“Maybe, no, reasons.”

Dave chuckles before gently peeling John off the pavement. John continues his wiggle check to find nothing broken. It all just stings like fuck. Dave hobbles him inside and sets him up by the elevator before sprinting outside to collect what remains of his bike and glasses. John shambles into it once it arrives and Dave’s at his side, propping him up before the door closes. The blonde is tumbling over apologies and assessments of the damage on him and “you idiot what were you thinking”s until they’re tucked safe in their not-much-warmer-than-outside apartment.

“Oh my fuck, you ride that bike to the fuckin BATHROOM, how’d you wreck so damn spectacularly?”

“Shit, Dave, I don’t know. My hands were numb and I tweaked the bars a bit. Can ya help me out of my clothes so I can wash some of this shit off?”

Dave stills, shoulders stiff, before mumbling a quick “sure,” and ducking out from under John’s arm. Cautious hands slide his jacket off and John winces to see the back is a little bit on the wrecked side. “Jesus, what was so important that you had to be going that fuckin fast down this damned hill?” Dave grumbles as he tries to figure the best side to lift John’s shirt from. “And why even was your hand in…oh.”

The “oh” is a soft thing, a feathered baritone whisper. A grin cracks John’s grimace. Dave cocks his head at the intact watch chain and tugs on it to fish out a yet-unharmed pocket watch. John closes a fist around the curious hand and Dave’s gaze darts to meet John’s. With his free hand, he gives the corner of Dave’s shades the gentlest push down the Cool Kid’s nose to see red eyes filled with equal parts curiosity and terror.

“I fucking love that watch. I’m not about to let it get jacked up already.”

Dave’s mouth falls open and something in John says “you know, fuck it.” He tugs the shades the rest of the way off and tilts his head a fraction to take Dave’s lower lip between his own. He allows his eyes to close, for all the good they’d been doing him. He hears something of a gasp before his lips are melted with his roommate’s and air becomes a thing of the past. He nips at the lip and a hot, hops-flavored tongue invades to twist over his own. The smooth, wet heat is perfection, but no match for his still-screaming, road-rashed skin. He pulls back and Dave follows a moment before realizing his meaning.

“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry. That was. No, I’m so- God, I mean. Fuck, I’m sor-“ John cuts him off with a squeeze of the hand.

“I’m still kind of fucked up here. Need to wash off and stuff. Help me get my clothes off?”

A flush drowns Dave’s freckles and he permits a shaky chuckle. There’s a quick nod before his skilled hands dive for the hem of John’s shirt again, dropping the watch chain. He pulls the sides wide away from John’s skin and does his best to keep it out of contact with the scraped back. He and John both wince to see it torn and bloodied. Dave’s head darts to the side and there’s a tender touch across John’s ribs as the Cool Kid makes sure the carnage doesn’t cover the tattoo. He lets out a sigh of relief at the intact skin and ducks his head to plant a quick kiss on the summersky-colored mark.

John unhooks the watch chain from his belt loop and there’s a nervous gulp from Dave before his pants are unbuttoned and shoved unceremoniously to the floor. John yelps when the rough fabric grazes his abused calves and Dave is all fumbling apologies once more. The Good Kid laughs a bit and plants another kiss on his roommate, pushing forward to make a rather lewd roll of his hips against him. Dave makes a guttural sound in his throat before John pulls back, to giggle out

“Come on, I don’t want this shit getting infected! Grab a sponge.”

John limps to the bathroom, sore as hell, with a full Prankster’s Gambit and a burgeoning boner. Dave finds that he has never been so eager to find a sponge in his entire life.


	11. In Which Dave Kindly Helps John Clean His Scrapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this took a long-ass time to write. Sorry for the delay. Had this thought out for a while, it just wouldn't settle properly.

John lays a few towels down over the bathroom floor and draws some warm water from the sink before settling on the toilet lid. After a moment, Dave all but scurries in with his sponge. He sets to work, gently dusting rocks and such from abused calves before gently sponging the ground-in black dust from John’s scrapes. John winces and he plants the slightest of kisses on the wreck survivor’s knee. As Dave puts his focus into the softness of his touch on John’s legs, the self-same dork opens his pocket watch and sighs at something.

“Not quite,” he mumbles.

“Hey, space cadet, can you turn around for me? It’s kind of going to make my entire life easier, here.”

John heaves a massive sigh before hauling himself up and gimping in a half-circle to resituate himself on the toilet lid.

“Fuckin drama queen. You cannot tell me that was necessary.”

“It was absolutely necessary. Now shut up and wash my back off.”

“Watch out, we got a badass over here.”

“Ffff-Shut up, Dave!” John hisses through his teeth. There’s a kiss at his shoulder, then another. A line of gentle pecks marches to where John’s neck meets his shoulder. Dave hums and swirls his tongue against the still-cold, slightly salted skin there between his parted lips. His hands still busy themselves, dusting off and sponging, as his mouth soothes at John’s neck. A low, contented, “Mmm…” rumbles from the Heir’s throat.   
Muscles unclench and he eases into Dave’s hands, safe with his Knight.

A flush begins to paint his cheeks and, just as he dances a hand back to find some purchase against the blonde behind him, said blonde has pulled away. While he grabs for a towel and some Neosporin, John peeks at his watch again. A tug smirks at his lips again, before twisting into a scowl at the sting of a towel patting against his back.

“Ow ow shit ow OW Dave!”

“Shh. Hush. Be done soon.”

“Fucking fuuuck, Dave!”

“ ‘Said hush. Whatcha checkin the time for?”

“It’s- wait, you…? Nothing.”

“The hell?”

“I said “nothing,” Dave.” A wicked grin pushes at John’s lips while Dave covers the last of his scrapes in Neosporin. Dave caps the tube and sets it on the sink and pads back to John to rest his chin against the injured moron’s shoulder.

“So,” he mumbles to the wild patch of hair at his cheek, “What now?”

“What do you mean, what now?”

“I flirt with you for months, you don’t flirt back, you tell me you like guys, we agree to keep living with each other, I give you a swag-ass watch, you crash your bike and kiss me, then ask me to get your clothes off you. What exactly are you wanting from me here, since shit kinda changed pretty damned suddenly. I just don’t wanna freak out my favorite dweeb.”

“I, uh… Well, when you put it like that, I feel like an asshole. Am I really that whiplash-inducing?”

“Well, I obviously exaggerate for effect, but I’m sure you can see where my confusion stems from, here. I mean, I’m one hundred percent down for some reasonable-ass discussion and shit, but Lil Dave is confused out of his little dick mind and would appreciate some kind of straightforward explanation before too much other shit goes down. If it would help, I can get a suit on and shit. I gotta tie that’s fuckin perfect for negotiating and-“

“Dave, shut up. I really like you and shit. I wanna eat Chinese food with you and sit on the roof with you and play fucking awful video games with you and kiss you and I wanna be the only one who kisses you. I want you to have your hands on me and you don’t need some bullshit excuse like helping me clean my tattoo. I love waking up and knowing you’re in the next room, but I’d rather wake up and see you right there. So if that’s cool, that’s where I’m at right now. And it’s where I’ve been for a while now. Whatever that is, that’s pretty much what’s going on.”

Dave blinks pretty stupidly for a moment.

“Is it cool if we shorten that to “boyfriends”?”

John breaks into a rich and ringing laugh. It sounds tinny in the terribly tiled bathroom and the quake it puts in John’s shoulders knocks Dave’s teeth together, but it’s the best sound the Cool Kid’s heard all day. All week, even.

“I guess that would save us some time, wouldn’t it?” The Windy Kid picks up a leg and spins himself around on the toilet lid. He comes nose to nose with his Knight and grins. “Have I ever mentioned how much I love your freckles?” There’s a kiss on Dave’s nose, then on his cheekbone, then down his jaw, over his hear, and on the gear behind his ear. He plants his hands on the Prankster’s knees and lunges in to match the pecks on his face. There’s a wide palm and long fingers tangling in his hair and he finds himself half-sprawled on the lap under him, begging a pair of smirking lips and some bucked teeth for something more substantial. Suddenly, the hand in his hair darts away to pop open a pocket watch.

“Fuck!” John latches his hand around Dave’s wrist and hauls the two of them back into the living room with an alarming haste.

“Wh-what? The fuck you doin, John?” His boyfriend’s name comes out as more of a grunt as he’s pushed to sit on the couch. His bare eyes widen as John climbs over him, chuckling, to straddle his lap. He plops his hips down in Dave’s lap and shows him the time on his watch: 12:11. A vague thought in Dave’s head wonders when it got so late.

“It’s your birthday, Dave,” John grins. “And this is your birthday present.”


	12. A Short Epilogue, In Which the Style of Narration is Changed for the Final Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here you go. All 64 words.

A young man sits on a couch in his living room. Though it was 22 years ago he was given life, it is only today that he has a John Egbert.

Okay, look. Your name is Dave Strider and you frankly don’t have time for this shit. You’re effectively getting an Egbertian birthday lap dance and you’d rather not be distracted from it.

Thanks.


End file.
